Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (28 page)

“I wish that I had been sent in your place,” he said, meaning it. His heart ached for her.

The look she gave him was full of pain. “I will look for you in Silvandom when I find the jewels, brother. For your wisdom and knowledge, Master Erasmus, I thank you. Will it rain before I reach Kenatos, do you think?”

Erasmus folded his arms. “Too early in the season. Or were you teasing me?”

She smirked at him and gave Annon a final hug good-bye.

He almost asked her if she would seek Paedrin in the Bhikhu temple as well. But he already suspected the answer to that question.

“In every great city, with all its gleaming walls and massive libraries, with all the shimmering fountains and sculptured gardens, there is a superfluity of dung that must be carted out. In our world, the Romani fill that role. Granted, they do cart all manner of substances through this Plague-ridden world. There are ducats enough to bring bushels of wheat or baskets of figs. But they also cart the seedier stuff. They traffic vice. They traffic slavery. Nothing pains my heart more than to hear that a child has been abducted from Kenatos. I abhor them all and their glittering earrings. Never trust a Romani. That is the only rule one needs to know about them.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

T
here was a Romani saying that came often to Hettie’s mind:
He who pays the piper calls the tune.
She had learned it as a child, over and over again. And she had heard it more recently when Kiranrao arrived at Evritt’s cabin in the woods. That day had shattered her peace and left her desperate.

A mass of swirling guilt consumed her as she hurried north along the plains toward Kenatos. It was like clutching knives into her bosom, each one a lie told to preserve the illusion. Her entire life was a lie. Even in her best days, she could barely discern truth from tale. Lying was important. Deception was crucial. If one believed in them enough, not even the Arch-Rike’s ring could unmask them. Her mind had been subverted as a child—a drip and drop of lies and deceits woven into a fabric that smothered her. Yes, the best lies were half-truths. Just enough honesty to flavor the falsehood. Yes, she was very good at flavoring her words.

She was miserable as she walked. Events had almost spun completely out of control. She had been so close to capturing the blade. Somehow, the Druidecht spell that had vaulted them away
from the Alkire into the lowland plains had taken time to wear off. With that, her plan to steal the dagger from Annon and then flee had been ruined. Instead, Tyrus had arrived and claimed it. Tyrus! Her cursed, scheming uncle had spoiled the opportunity for her. How she hated him!

Her fingers tingled with heat and she forced the emotions down. She walked swiftly, trying to cover as much ground as she could. Kiranrao would be furious, of course. Not in a blustery way, but in a deadly calm way. She knew that not even a Fear Liath could kill him. Its arrival had ruined the first opportunity to steal the dagger. But she knew he was alive and that he would seek her out again, demanding the tune once more. Betray her uncle and steal the blade.

Hettie hated herself the most. She had played her part too well and had earned the trust of Annon and Paedrin. They were such fools. Such simpletons. They knew not the ways of the Romani or the Preachán. A thousand deceits spun around them like gnats, yet the lies were totally invisible. It amazed her how people could be so blind. She even thought she might have Tyrus fooled, though Kiranrao had warned her never to assume that. Tyrus was cunning. He saw through every trap.

She clenched her jaw in fury, summoning all of her despair and self-hatred into a bubbling cauldron of feelings. Annon was so naive. Paedrin was clever, but he was also a fool. She clamped the feelings down with brutal willpower, slamming the lid on the cauldron and wrapping it with chains. This was her life. This was the way of the Romani. Deceive the world into giving you want you wanted.

What did she want? Freedom. But she knew that she would never get it. She had lied to Paedrin during their midnight conversation. She had said she did not know how the Romani controlled their women. It was a half-truth. No one had told
her, specifically. But when she was five she had seen it happen. Romani were excellent poisoners. They knew the properties of every plant with deadly or harmful aspects. Some poisons killed quickly. Some made you blind. But the worst by far was monkshood. It made you wish you were dead before it killed you.

She had seen a young woman be disobedient and then watched as her food was tainted with monkshood. Being so young herself, she did not realize it until after the meal when the girl had started retching violently and was unable to control her bowels. She screamed for help. She pleaded her repentance. Still, they just stared at her coldly, letting her experience the full effects of the poison. When she was almost dead, she was given the antidote. Seeing that had shocked Hettie at how merciless they had been to someone ten years older than her.

So Hettie had grown up knowing that even if she ran away from her fate, a Romani would poison her with monkshood and let her die. She would not know who it was. She could not know when. There were so many subtle ways the poison could be added to her food. Too many to consider. Freedom was something she wanted more than anything else. And Kiranrao had promised it to her in return for her help. Of course that was a lie as well. But it was better than the prospect of being bartered off as a wife.

She kicked a stray scrub away as she walked, scanning the sky as thunderheads threatened in the north. She was not cold, not at the pace she was keeping. Her heart pounded with the rhythm of her walking. The breeze was scented with wildflowers. She still waited for the sour smell of the city, which would be the first indication she was getting close to Kenatos.

In her mind, she thought over the events of her current plight. Evritt had indeed purchased her when she was eight. Kiranrao had allowed the sale, of course. He more than suspected that Tyrus’s hand was behind the purchase, even if it could not be
proved. Rather than force the issue of her theft then, Kiranrao would force it later. Everyone knew that Tyrus was one of the wealthiest men in Kenatos. Yet he was miserly and rarely parted with ducats for anything except for purchasing his equipment and exotic spirits. The Romani whispered that he had even paid an enormous sum for a monstrous oak tree to be excavated and brought inside the city walls to the Paracelsus Tower because he fancied the shade. It was dead and rotting now, but the rumor was famous amongst the Romani. If he would pay that much for a tree, how much would he pay for a niece?

Kiranrao had told her before Evritt had taken her away that he would visit her again and demand an accounting of any interactions with Tyrus. In the nearly ten years since that time, her uncle had not visited her once. Her entire life was given over to training to be a Finder. It was a handy skill for any Romani to learn, and she had enjoyed the years living away from the traveling caravans that used wagons and steeds to transport goods throughout a land riddled by Plague.

He had warned her to stay in good health and take pains to keep herself physically attractive. All Romani girls were expected to be beautiful and cold. The more mysterious and alluring, the higher the value to prospective buyers. She had dyed her unfashionably red hair and made it a brown instead, disguising the trait that might have revealed her fireblood. Her lifestyle in the woods had kept her fit and trim, and she wore her clothing tight deliberately. Other Finders sought out Evritt, not so much for his wisdom and experience but for a glimpse of his Romani-girl, Hettie. Some of the younger men had tried to win her eye. But her instructions from Kiranrao were plain. She was to be Tyrus’s undoing. She would be the one to trick him into revealing the blade’s hiding place.

She understood fully well that Evritt’s life was at stake if she did not comply with Kiranrao’s plans. He did not threaten the
old man, but it was implied as surely as water freezing into ice during winter. He coached her in what to say, what to reveal, and what not to reveal. Just enough truth to flavor the stew. Not to ask for his money but for a way to prove herself worthy of his trust. She was furious with herself for even caring. What had her uncle ever done for her?

Tyrus had seemed genuinely pleased to see her, willing to help. Was it because he, as a man, simply could not resist helping a beautiful girl who had come to him for assistance? Kiranrao had warned her not to be fooled. Tyrus was not an emotional man. Yet he had seemed so convincing. He had summoned a Druidecht boy and claimed him to be her brother. They were as unlike as syrup and milk, yet there was a blood connection between them. She had felt it in Annon’s presence, just as she did in her uncle’s. They were family. Despite the lies, that mattered.

She had not expected to be sent to Havenrook to look for Drosta’s treasure. It was the last place she wanted to go, to be surrounded by Preachán and Romani and the hive of deceit. She suspected Kiranrao was startled to see her so soon as well, which was why he had summoned her to his table. The conversation they had with their hands masked completely the conversation they employed with their voices. Even their words had multiple meanings, meant to confuse and deceive Annon and Paedrin while giving Kiranrao the useful information he needed.

She warned him about the deaths on the road, of course, and the trouble that would come. She had told Paedrin and Annon that the men hiding in the trees were Romani and had exaggerated her hatred to add conviction to her ruse, but, of course, she never would have willingly killed a Romani man. She knew they were all Preachán and their lives were worth little more than the money they gambled with. She had given the Preachán on the
wagon a subtle hand sign to see if he would let them pass, but he had either not noticed it or was stupid enough he didn’t care.

Hettie sighed deeply. Paedrin and all his chatter and talk. His entire outlook on life was almost comical. Just walk away from the Romani. The imprisonment was only in her mind. She wanted to believe him. But how could she expect him to understand that defying them would mean she would never have a moment’s peace the rest of her life? Every crust of bread, every swallow of wine could contain monkshood. Just enough to kill her and anyone else eating with her. She would spend her days in mortal suspense, wondering which dish would be her last.

If it was freedom she truly wanted, only Kiranrao could ensure it. And he wanted the blade Iddawc. All of his thoughts were bent toward locating it and claiming it as his own. The most powerful weapon forged by a Paracelsus. A weapon that would not lose its power in a thousand years. Kiranrao did not want it in the hands of a Kishion. He wanted it for himself.

She wondered if she should stop by the temple and see how Paedrin was faring when she arrived. Her uncle’s task to find the bag would be ridiculously simple. All she needed to do was show her
carnotha
, ask the right question, and all of Kiranrao’s resources would be put to her use. If someone had found it already, they would be able to trace it and give it to her. If not, every thief in the city would be scrambling for a chance to do Kiranrao a favor. All she needed to do was wait the appropriate amount of time, to make the discovery
seem
convincing, and then travel to Silvandom with the missing stones.